


summer breeze

by Alitheia



Series: D1960 (end of all things) [1]
Category: Joker Game (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Family, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Canon, References to Depression, d1960
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-01-30 12:17:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21428092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alitheia/pseuds/Alitheia
Summary: The curtains were breathing. Amari watched as they came alive, rippling softly under the golden rays of morning sun. It’s going to a beautiful day, he mulled.(And strangely calm, like the sea before storm.)
Relationships: Amari & Emma Grane, Amari/Tazaki (Joker Game), Kaminaga/Miyoshi if you squint - Relationship
Series: D1960 (end of all things) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1547290
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	summer breeze

**Author's Note:**

> ... so, guess who's back in joker game hell lol (jk, i never really moved on wheeze) by some kind of miracle, i finally wrote that prequel fic to [_**sea house**_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13928871) i'd been talking about. i also listed some trigger warnings so if you're the kind of person who never remembers to read the tags like me, i suggest you take a bit of a look on those first before reading ;w;

_Some die eloquent, pressed to death_

_By the sliding trench as their friends can hear._

_Some die wholly in half a breath._

_Some—give trouble for half a year._

The curtains were breathing.

Amari watched as they came alive by the summer breeze, rippling softly under the golden rays of morning sun. It’s going to a beautiful day, he mulled, slowly feeling a little touch of joy over something so simple. Yet he lay still, painfully aware of his hourglass running out of sand; _it’s a beautiful day to go._

The floor outside of his room creaked, because no matter how carefully you walked on it, it’d always be noisy—that’s just an old house’s way of telling you its age—and before long, the soft rattle of the door sliding open graced his ears.

“Are you awake, Papa?”

The hallway had been dark, but his daughter always came shining as if she was the morning itself.

“I am, Emma.”

“Let’s go outside after breakfast,” she said before striding across the room to part the rest of the curtains open, “the weather’s been so nice lately, seems like it’s going to be a beautiful day too.”

“It seems so, indeed.”

As she helped him get into his wheelchair, he thought faintly, _not today, maybe not today._

\---

Their garden was small, but spring flowers had awakened like butterflies, unfolding in every corner in hundred dots of colors. One had to lean in closely and perhaps on their tiptoes to see them from outside the bamboo fence, but Emma always took care of every tree and bush like they had spectators waiting or experts to judge. Tulips, azaleas, carnations; she watered each with patience and trimmed their leaves with delicate fingers.

Amari was sitting on the wooden veranda, with two cups of tea gradually turning cold on his side and a newspaper placed on his lap; the crosswords in it were already half-filled. _Nine letters down, a poker hand_. The clue was clear, the known letters made it too easy. He wrote down the rest almost without thinking.

_Full house._

The sun was warm on his face, Amari lifted his gaze and squinted, finding Emma walking towards one side of the house to refill her watering can. As if on cue, she turned her head in his direction. “When do you think we should start putting on the bamboo blinds?”

“Well,” he chuckled, “looks like somebody’s really looking forward to summer.”

Emma giggled. “It’s my favorite time of the year.”

“Is that so?”

“Kind of makes me miss our cottage, though.”

Amari blinked. The image of a small house with white walls and grey roof tiles flashed in his mind. “You know, maybe we should stop renting it for the whole summer, and stay there ourselves for a week or so?”

“Not this summer, though, it’s fully booked,” Emma said, then added with a smile, “but it’s a lovely idea, Papa, let’s do that sometime.”

The place they’re living in now was nice. A traditional house made of wood, it’s rustic and old and the paper doors rattled when strong wind came to knock, but it’s sufficient for two and they were content. Yet from time to time, Amari couldn’t help but to think about a secluded house by the sea, about the songs he hummed along with the waves, about the laughs and smiles he shared with someone. It had been a home to them.

His eyes landed onto a tiny gravestone under their only plum tree. Whether he liked it or not, Amari knew that some things had to go, and some memories were to be buried, just like the dog they once had.

\---

Dinner was modest, unlike the splurge in classy restaurants downtown when he was younger. Amari didn’t remember ever having taught Emma how to cook, but there were a lot of women in the neighborhood, and she knew well how to win their favor. Steaming white rice, chopped tofu in miso soup, rolled eggs, grilled mackerel, pickled vegetables; those weren’t exactly the kinds of food he had imagined he’d be having after his retirement, but they all somehow tasted like coming home.

Hands put together, a small _itadakimasu_ in unison. It’s supposed to be a small show of gratitude, to what or to whom, he didn’t exactly know, but if anything, he’s always grateful to and for his daughter.

“He hasn’t been around lately.” Emma picked up her chopsticks.

“Who?”

Emma glanced at him, but her expression showed nothing. “Tazaki.”

Amari took a bite of his pickled radish. “I guess he’s busy.”

“I miss him.”

“Aren’t you a little too old for card tricks, dear?”

“I miss _him_, Papa,” she laughed heartily, “not his magic show. But I do want to see Tazaki’s pigeons again.”

“Me too, Emma, me too.”

\---

Amari stopped going out as much as he used to, so although they’d been settled in the city for a few years by now, he didn’t have anyone close enough. He still occasionally went out for drinks and chatted with other bar patrons, true, and he had a lot of acquaintances from the local choir he’s in, but he had a pretty high standard for someone to be called a friend, and it’s hard to meet the requirements if the bottom line of them are at least having been trained together as spies or something of the like.

But his old friends (comrades?) sometimes did come by, like ghosts from a past he’d rather forget on better days, or he didn’t want to let go on less sober nights.

“I thought we shouldn’t be in contact anymore,” Amari once asked as he shuffled the cards, “yet you’re always here being a freeloader at my place, drinking all my beer—”

“Hey, I still got you souvenirs, okay,” Kaminaga clicked his tongue in fake annoyance, “you should be grateful.”

“That’s so kind of you,” he replied in the same tone, with no real sarcasm, “is it really okay with the agency, though?”

“Why not,” Kaminaga unwrapped a small piece of confection brought from Tokyo, popping it into his own mouth, “I decide things now.”

Ever since he took over the agency, Kaminaga just seemed to be doing whatever he pleased, but even as an outsider Amari knew that he only made it looked like so. The new director didn’t really play by the old rules—things had changed, they no longer acted in the exact way their previous spymaster dictated—but they’re a clandestine agency anyway, and adapting came as natural as breathing. Amari didn’t see him often, but even only in their occasional, brief encounters he could see how Kaminaga had matured, grown wiser, and somewhat become calmer, although still stubbornly retaining his trademark carefree smile and cheerful persona.

Amari finished handing out the cards. When Kaminaga took them, all expressions were instantly washed away from his face. There’s no fun playing with only two people, but at this point it’s more of a ritual than a real game. Like an homage, a game for a every visit; sometimes more, when they’re feeling pretty nostalgic. It did remind him of the long nights they spent in the old cafeteria of their agency building, when the air and their lungs were always colored by cigarette smoke. Back then everything seemed like a game. (But now there was none. He had lost his.)

It’s already warm enough to let the door to the terrace stayed open, and they sat closer to it as the night fell deeper.

Kaminaga had not talked about what they’re currently doing. He’d talked about Tokyo, about this lady or that gentleman he recently got “acquainted” with (he’s not actually interested in any of those people, Amari knew, because Kaminaga hadn’t really been interested in anyone except for this one spy they both knew back then), about the newest trends in the city and best places to get drinks that Amari now wouldn’t have the chance to visit.

They found themselves halfway through the third round when Amari finally asked, “How is he?”

The question was sudden, but both knew well whom the man was referring to.

“Tazaki’s going undercover, he won’t be back for a while.” Kaminaga at least tried to look sorry, since he’s the one responsible for it, after all. He looked like he’s weighing his words for a moment, but then decided to spit his thoughts out anyway. “It’s a very important mission. The others are equally capable, but when Miyoshi’s not around, you know well whom I trust the most.”

And both knew well too that Miyoshi would never ever be around anymore, yet Kaminaga still talked as if the man was simply away for a mission. Amari let him. Some things had to be buried when they die, but some others might stay alive in your mind, as clear as the white walls of an old house, and the singing of the waves when they swallowed down the sun.

“It’s for the best.”

\---

His daughter had grown up into a beautiful lady, he realized, with an even more beautiful heart. Sometimes Amari tried to imagine what it felt like to live so far away from the land you were born in, for so long that you could no longer call it a home. He never asked how much Emma remembered from the time she wasn’t adopted yet, did she ever miss it? Did she try to bury it like he did with his own memories?

“You could’ve been married and happy by now, Emma,” Amari chuckled, though it sounded more like coughing, “but instead here you are stuck with a useless old man like me.”

“Stop saying things like that, Papa.” She gathered her things, put them neatly into a bag, and took a last look of herself in the mirror, making sure her uniform was impeccable. “I’m way happier to be with you, anyway.”

_That’s because you’re so busy here you haven’t gotten the chance to meet anyone, _but before he could say it, Emma walked quickly to the front door. “I’m off to work, Papa, see you tonight!”

Amari didn’t miss the sad look on her face whenever she thought he wasn’t looking.

\---

The house wasn’t in the busiest district, but it’s close enough that Emma would pass the city center every time she went to work riding her bicycle. It’s quite peaceful in the neighborhood, save for the time when little children were out playing or when the nearby housewives and elderly ladies occasionally talked a bit too loud outside. He didn’t know his neighbors by name, but they always exchanged greetings every time they saw each other.

Somewhat it’s odd to be talking about the weather and the seasons and every little bit of anything, without ever really knowing a thing about the person you’re having a chat with. But perhaps it wasn’t something too strange for him when he thought about it again, because weren’t that exactly how he was with the spies he called “friends”? Perhaps the only thing most difficult about the whole thing was actually being mundane, because this time it was not a mission, and he wasn’t pretending.

Emma, on the other hand, was more familiar with them, sometimes she would even babysit the small children when the parents were away or busy, and helped to tend the garden in the house of the elderlies. Amari thought it would be good if there were more women’s influence in Emma’s life, and happy to know that they all were fond of his daughter, taught her a lot of things that he might not be able to talk about.

In truth too, it’s a seaside city, with beaches and hot springs, and many live from tourists; restaurants and teahouses were quite rich and abundant, so was the nightlife attractions. With flowing red hair and deep blue eyes, Emma always caught people’s attention, and although she liked singing and dancing, she was modest. Somewhat it’s odd to choose a monotone work in a local branch of the postal company, and Amari knew it wasn’t because she’d never gotten the offer for better jobs.

“Those kinds of work tend to finish quite late,” she said once, “I don’t want to leave you alone during that time.”

Even if Amari never really got used to mundane life, Emma did. Perhaps it’s the only good thing.

\---

The hydrangeas were in bloom.

Their garden blossomed in shades of blue and violet and pink; graceful, vibrant, _alive_.

Emma’s climbed down from the terrace to her wooden sandals on the ground, stepping on wet pebbles and slowly finding her way through the rain-scented bushes. Amari followed her with his dimming eyes, Emma was probably the only person who was able to make an old, slightly rusty pair of scissors looked elegant, as she’s snipping flowers at the stems, picking the biggest and prettiest hydrangeas.

They had the radio on, it’s playing an old song. Amari didn’t know the name, but every time he heard it he always sang along, although he could never remember the lyrics after the first four lines. Emma looked up when he began singing, giggling, before she started singing as well. She could remember the lyrics to the end. She probably even knew the title of that song. For Amari it could remain the nameless song that it ever was to him, it didn’t matter.

His daughter returned with a handful of hydrangeas, smiling wide, and arranged it into the large vase he had ready on his lap. The flowers were dotted with water droplets, glinting like stars.

Amari smiled too, mirroring the curve of Emma’s lips; nothing else really mattered.

\---

One day he could no longer see the flowers nor her smile. It mattered, but Amari liked to pretend it didn’t bother him.

He would just sometimes sit on the terrace and listen to the bugs during the latter part of the day, thinking, _summer sounds like death_.

\---

Eventually, he lost his sight. It was only a matter of time, a gradual downfall that he had already predicted, and when he finally opened his eyes only to find lights that he could no longer made out, it was no surprise.

The funny thing, he thought, if there anything left in life he could still find amusing, was that the blindness didn’t shroud him in pitch-black nothingness. He still saw lights, lots of them, colorful in the way even their garden would never be, moving, swaying, nonsensical. Ever-changing. Almost like fireworks in a summer sky.

This was not what he was prepared for. Deep down he had always expected that it’d only leave him in deep black, that it would slowly devour him, like the life of solitude Lt. Col. Yuuki had promised all of his spies when he trained them. It’s a different kind of loneliness, Amari felt, but did it matter?

Once, in the ocean of colors behind his eyelids, he heard a familiar voice. Gentle, warm, a bit husky. Or maybe he only thought he did, a wistful daydream of a late afternoon, of somebody he hadn’t seen for a very long time.

“—I left for a while and you’ve already so grown up.”

Amari knew they were talking right in front of his room. The door was shut, but his ears were still as sharp.

“—Papa’s resting, but I can wake him up, he’d be very happy to see you.”

“No, I won’t bother him.” A pause. “I only meant to drop by a bit in the first place. There’s somewhere else I must be right now.”

“But—”

“_Emma_. It’s all right. Just tell him I said hello.”

The conversation ended, and Amari drifted back to sleep. In his dream he saw pigeons, but they all flew away before he could catch any of them. He got a feeling that he wouldn’t see them again for a long while.

Much later, when he was absentmindedly shuffling the pack of cards he no longer played, he realized he suddenly had an extra card. Amari didn’t even need his sight to know what it was.

An extra card of the Joker.

\---

“Why are you still taking care of me, Emma?”

One day he tried asking and then he just kept asking, because, _no_, turned out being a spy was not something people commit for life, at least not for some. Not for him.

“Why do you keep asking about such a thing, Papa?”

“You’re still here when you could be somewhere else doing something else. Yet you choose to stay, why?”

“You picked me up when I had no one else left, why?” Emma’s voice was still as soft, yet she somehow also sounded determined—stubborn, even, as if talking about this made her indignant.

“It’s different,” he almost chuckled, “you had hope, you were still very young and had a whole life ahead of you.” Amari paused to find better words, but he couldn’t seem to make it sound less mushy. “I couldn’t stand the thought of the world being so unfair to such a sweet girl, so I took you in.”

“Was there a time when the world was not unfair?” Emma replied, and to be honest he didn’t know how to answer that. He had lived a different world. “One way or another I would’ve still lived, but you didn’t have to be the one making sure I did.”

He sighed. He would never win this. “I love you, Emma, so I just had to.”

“Then it’s no different, I love you too, Papa,” she said with a sense of finality he couldn’t argue with, “so I simply want to.”

\---

Every day went on the same, even years after the how the world looked had been lost to him.

When summer came they still sat on the terrace and talk, singing to songs on the radio. He still held the flower vase, as he listened to the sounds of pebbles and grass under Emma’s feet. When she came back to him with a bunch of cut flowers in her hands, she’d patiently describe to him each of them, what they were, what colors they had. Amari never told her that what he’s able to see now was more colorful than everything he’d ever seen before the poison in his body started to eat him away, but not that it mattered.

That August, Emma saved them a week in the summer house, hoping for a good change of pace. Amari could not see, but the smell of the ocean when they arrived reminded him of the way sunlight gleamed across the surface of its white walls, and the grey of its roof against an expanse of blue.

It had no garden, no flowers, and he could no longer see the horizon he used to stare at with Tazaki back then, though when they went down the beach he could still feel the sand tickling his feet, smelled the salty wind, and heard the wave singing. Who knew if Tazaki was still alive by now, they hadn’t heard anything from him in a few years. Something, anything, _everything_—all could’ve happened to him somewhere on the other side of the planet and neither Amari nor Emma would ever know. They lived in different worlds after all, and Amari didn’t blame him.

Spies should be alone. That’s just how they were.

That’s how he was now, as he’s supposed to be.

With nothing but the sounds of seagulls and waves as his requiem, Amari waited for his daughter to be out before he visited the beach for the last time. He thought it was amusing how he’d been named Utsumi when he first found Emma, because maybe, just maybe, it had been a kind of premonition, that someday he would indeed be belonged to the sea.

Heart’s beating inside his ribcage, fast yet delicate, like the last flutter of wings of a dying swan. He felt strangely calm, kind of like the sea before storm.

Then he flew down, in the breath of the summer breeze.

_Some die quietly._

**Author's Note:**

> * the italicized lines at the beginning and the end are from [_**A Death-Bed**_](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57429/a-death-bed) from Rudyard Kipling
> 
> * the kanji for _sea (海)_ is in the fake name Amari uses in the anime, _Utsumi Osamu (内海脩)_
> 
> * if you're confused about the whole [d1960](https://jgfiles.tumblr.com/post/169391164287/so-i-managed-to-get-my-hands-on-miwa-shirows) thing—basically the setting of this fic is based on miwa shiro's postwar headcanon for the d-agency in the 1960s aka. Pain™
> 
> thanks for reading! ^o^


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